


THE WORST COMPARISON

by spicyshimmy



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:32:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/pseuds/spicyshimmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for teapirate on tumblr, based on a picture of Sebastian's very attractive posterior. Hawke can't help but touch things in the Black Emporium, and a pot of enchanted incense shows him the life he could have led with a naughtier Sebastian. <i>‘Look, all I’m saying,’ Varric seemed to find it necessary to point out again, ‘is that you’re starting to remind me of Xenon. The only thing you don’t have is the urchin…though I’m sure some starry-eyed Fereldan refugee kid might be convinced to volunteer for the role free of charge, once you mentioned you’re the Champion.’</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	THE WORST COMPARISON

It wasn’t the worst comparison Hawke had ever suffered.

After all, he’d been called a turnip before. And if that wasn’t Orlesian cruelty at its finest, Hawke didn’t know what was.

‘Look, all I’m saying,’ Varric seemed to find it necessary to point out _again_ , ‘is that you’re starting to remind me of Xenon. The only thing you _don’t_ have is the urchin…though I’m sure some starry-eyed Fereldan refugee kid _might_ be convinced to volunteer for the role free of charge, once you mentioned you’re _the_ Champion.’

No one was perfect—not even Varric, although he often came perilously close. He had no spirit of justice inside him, no secret, troubled past to brood about, no qunari army on his heels, no canaries for Hawke’s coal mine, no mirror of untold arcane horror to fix, not even a younger brother complex that kept him from participating in decent conversation, or vows of virtue to uphold that kept him from participating in decent _everything else_. But he did have advice—and that was the one exception to prove the rule.

‘Now, Varric,’ Hawke began, ‘ _that’s_ hardly fair. I only have _three_ measly Tevinter statues and none of the chests is anywhere close to full yet. Besides, they aren’t even _slightly_ enchanted—and believe me, they could be, since I know just the Sandal to ask.’

Varric didn’t have to bend down to flip the latch on the nearest one. The top fell open, revealing a dazzling array of cracked gemstones, torn trousers, moth-eaten scarves and Kirkwall’s other finest mementos. There were even, Hawke admitted, enough stale biscuits to feed Isabela’s crew—if she’d still had one.

Hawke swiped one of the biscuits for himself, sniffed it, detected a not-insignificant amount of mold, and fed it to the dog instead of indulging in a mid-afternoon snack right there in the foyer.

Raised on an authentic Fereldan diet of all things covered in mud, the mabari ate every last crumb without so much as a hint of indigestion.

They just didn’t breed stomachs like that this side of the Free Marches.

‘See?’ Hawke said. ‘Always some use for a stale biscuit. Anyway, you might think that’s _my_ storage, but really, it’s only for overflow—whatever doesn’t fit in the kitchen cupboards. I hate to say it, Varric, but I suspect poor old Bodahn has a bit of a hoarding problem. I like to give _him_ the benefit of the doubt because if there’s another qunari invasion, I suspect all that cured meat is bound to be useful _somehow_. _Submit to the bacon_ is so much more catchy than _submit to the qun_ , don’t you agree?’

‘Bodahn’s collecting torn trousers too, is he?’ Varric asked, displaying the pair in question, waistband pinched between thumb and forefinger, both pinkies up.

Insufferably keen, that Varric. Hawke could just hear him going on about it now, the Champion of Kirkwall with his pretty house full of knick-knacks and curios, slowly suffocating under the weight of so many _things,_ a sure sign of his deteriorating mental health—putting on eccentricity the way he’d put on a few pounds. _Hightown does that to a man_ , Varric would begin with a sigh, while the tired patrons of the Hanged Man gathered close to drink up his gossip, _and no matter where he’s from, no matter how brave and how handsome he might be, no matter how magnificently trimmed he keeps his beard, fine living and expensive brandy and an empty home and dangerous friends all lead to one thing._   _I tell you, the Champion is starting to crack like an old rose diamond._

‘Those are Anders’s,’ Hawke replied, already heading to the kitchen for a better snack. ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Varric. You know he doesn’t have much time these days for mending, what with all the hopeless causes. I keep telling him he only needs _one_ of those to be satisfied—why _is_ it that when I talk, nobody ever listens?’

‘I ask myself the same thing all the time,’ Varric said.

The chest fell shut with a clang, latch snapping into place, torn trousers atop Kirkwall’s finest collection of discarded dwarven clan pins. Only some of them were potentially magical. The others were probably less than worthless. Not even local beggars would take them. But somewhere in there was something important, while the rest of it was all burnished memory, and none of them Hawke’s to begin with.

In any case, it had to mean _something_.

‘All I’m saying,’ Varric repeated, ‘is this is probably how the Black Emporium got started.’

‘With Anders’s torn trousers?’ Hawke asked. ‘How _scandalous_.

Varric held up both hands—not in defeat but certainly looking for a sandwich. ‘So long as you don’t hire _me_ to be your urchin.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Hawke said. ‘You’re many things, Varric—but naïve isn’t one of them.’

‘And thank the Maker for that,’ Varric replied.

*

Hawke did his best not to think about it—whether or not he sounded like Xenon; whether or not he needed that unpolished Rivaini mirror; what was in that pot of incense and how he could have lived his entire life without experiencing the indescribable sensation of his nose-hairs actually curling; and why it was he and Xenon both had an equally thorough collection of other people’s lost socks. _I’ve a basket just like this back home_ was on the tip of Hawke’s tongue before Varric cleared his throat, meaningful and discreet at once, perhaps trying to spare Hawke the embarrassment of saying something he wouldn’t be able to take back.

‘How about I run head-first into the screaming stone again?’ Hawke said instead. ‘ _That’s_ always fun.’

‘I’ll devote an entire chapter to it,’ Varric told him. ‘I’ll call it _The Champion Cracks His Skull Open—We Never Even Saw it Coming._ ’

‘Be sure to include dirges if you can,’ Hawke said. ‘I’ve always wanted dirges.’

‘And a wretched apostate blowing his nose tragically above your funeral pyre into his very own pair of torn trousers,’ Varric promised. ‘I’ll even have Choir Boy say a few choice words for you. Come on. This is _me_ we’re talking about. Would I ever give you anything less?’

‘Ah—but will you ever give me anything _more_?’ Hawke asked.

He resisted the urge to man-handle the urchin—only because the urchin was _there_ , and the implication that it was forbidden meant there had to be some real reason to do it in the first place—and waited for Xenon to finish his greetings.

He’d been on the same sentence for a while now and possibly the same word. Hawke couldn’t tell because he hadn’t been listening.

‘You know, he _does_ sound a lot like you when you’ve had one too many, Hawke,’ Varric said.

Hawke looked up from his inspection of a funeral urn—or perhaps an Orlesian chamber-pot; it was difficult to say when it came to Orlesians—hefting the top in both hands. ‘Varric, sometimes I think you build my confidence up only to destroy it again,’ he said. ‘Will there be no end, Varric? Will there be no peace without an end?’

Something pale and wispy ghosted forth from the urn’s depths. It smelled like a chantry confessional in there, rife with shadows and long-buried secrets. It burned through the back of Hawke’s throat and he dropped the top with a clatter, but Xenon was still distracted by the sound of his own voice, the urchin possibly an incense-fueled hallucination, and nobody mentioned the drama.

Just another day in the Black Emporium. Hawke considered the screaming stone again, if only to clear his head.  

‘Now you’re just being paranoid,’ Varric replied, and began to whistle.

*

They didn’t notice anything was wrong until they arrived at the Hanged Man later that afternoon. The sun was low in the sky already, hidden beneath the line of smoke-belching foundries, which meant it was officially time to start drinking.

Yet Hawke wasn’t drinking. He stood in the doorway instead, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

‘Well,’ Varric said. ‘Stranger things have happened in Thedas. …I think.’

‘Like an apostate from Lothering making a fortune in the Deep Roads and besting the Arishok in single combat to become Champion of Kirkwall and the Free Marches’ most eligible bachelor?’ Hawke asked.

‘I was thinking more along the lines of Aveline actually getting married to Donnic without _somebody_ ruining the wedding,’ Varric replied. ‘But I guess yours is good too—if a little predictable.’

Hawke rubbed the back of his neck with a palm that wasn’t necessarily sweaty. The more he blinked, the less his vision cleared.

There, sitting across the table from Isabela, without his white armor or Andraste standing guard, strapped into a blue leather jerkin, Sebastian Vael was telling jokes. They were dirty ones, too, if his hand gestures were anything to go by.

Isabela, collar done up all the way to her chin, was blushing.

Also, she was wearing a skirt. Hawke panicked for a moment, wondering if she’d lost her legs.

‘Some days, you lot make my job too easy,’ Varric said, waving to Corff for two full tankards of whatever he had that’d make them sickest. ‘You know, Hawke, I actually _like_ a challenge now and then?’

‘Andraste’s gone,’ Hawke replied.

He meant it less metaphorically than it sounded.

‘And I suspect she’s been gone for a while now, at that.’ Varric grabbed his drink and headed for the table. ‘Steering clear of Kirkwall, at the very least. Say, that’s a pretty good line—do me a favor and don’t let me forget it?’

‘Wasn’t even listening,’ Hawke admitted.

‘Didn’t think you were,’ Varric called back over his shoulder.

The whiskey was necessary. Hawke drank from his deeply, foam streaking his beard, bracing himself for the burn and the kick, always as friendly as a punch to the gut. But Corff’s brew tonight had a seductive sweetness, maybe even a hint of raspberry—and that was how Hawke knew something desperate and deceptive and ultimately delicious was going on. When he drank again, he almost felt comforted, welcome, not at all swindled out of his hard-earned coin by whiskey that might have been eighty to eight-five percent urine in origin.

But whiskey was whiskey the whole world round. It made bad situations worse and insurmountable ones possible. It made wealthy men wake up in ditches and poor men wake up with new fortunes—even if the former was more common than the latter, the point was it _could_ happen.

It also allowed Hawke to make it past the bar, grinning as he went.  

‘Friends,’ he said, settling in at the table between Not Quite Sebastian and Definitely Not Isabela. ‘At least I _think_ you’re my friends. A bit late in the story for long-lost twins to show up, isn’t it, Varric?’

‘Hey,’ Varric replied. ‘It’s _never_ too late for an improbable plot twist.’

Isabela tightened the laces at her collar, crossing her legs at the knee. Meanwhile, Sebastian slid one hand over the bow resting between his thighs, curving his thumb against the string groove, sliding it down to the nocking point, and giving it a thoughtful twang that was, Hawke imagined, a spell particular to rogues, something a mage could never learn no matter how roguish he tried to be. It just wasn’t the _same_ when you stroked your staff at somebody. They tended to think you were about to cast a spell and reacted accordingly.

Still, he’d always wanted Sebastian to fondle his weapon like Varric did just _once_.

Apparently all his wishes had been granted.

The trouble with Thedas—and Kirkwall especially—was that you could never _enjoy_ the dream while it was coming true because of the nightmare it so obviously was beneath the surface.

‘Hawke,’ Sebastian said, nodding once.

‘Demons,’ Hawke sighed. ‘Of course. Nice job on hiding the horns—and the purple tits.’

‘If I had a pair of those, Hawke, do you think I’d be wasting my time in this establishment instead of enjoying them to their fullest?’ Sebastian asked.

‘He’s been leading me on all night,’ Isabela added. ‘This place is just awful—all the smells and the daggers—’

‘It hurts a little,’ Varric said, ‘to hear her talk like that. Somehow, it’s even more wrong than imagining Choir Boy having nipples.’

‘I really need to stop visiting the Black Emporium,’ Hawke decided out loud, where the mirror images of his friends stared at him as though _he_ was the one who’d finally cracked.

Maybe he was. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the night he had, and Sebastian was wearing blue leather and still stroking the upper limb of his bow.

But if Aveline showed up wearing a dress, Hawke probably wouldn’t make it through the night.

*

Donnic joined them without any facial hair; Anders joined _him_ and became obscenely drunk, both of them dancing the Remigold atop a sturdy table; Fenris was dressed in a simple tunic and trousers and no sign of spiky armor, holding Isabela’s hand in one of his, attending a night at the Hanged Man in the first place _and_ chuckling at all Varric’s jokes.

‘Spooky,’ Varric leaned close to say.

Hawke sighed. ‘Yet he _still_ won’t laugh at mine.’

It was impossible to be fully regretful with the knowledge—explicit, now, rather than simply implied—that Sebastian was flirting with him. No purple tits were involved, which Hawke considered lucky by half and unlucky by another; sometimes it was better to have an obvious explanation than not to work with, even if it did break the spell or destroy the magic of the moment.

Light from the full moon spilled in from the high windows. Hawke searched for the familiar bloodstains on the taproom’s tables, but they were all out of order, fresh sawdust on the floor, not a single chipped molar in sight. When Nora came by, one of Sebastian’s winks made her giggle and drop a curtsy.

Hawke couldn’t tell whether that was part of the spell itself or merely part of this Sebastian’s charm.

‘I can’t help but notice, Hawke,’ Sebastian said, also leaning close, ‘that you seem troubled by our banter. If you tell me it’s the lack of purple tits, I’ll be _beside_ myself with disappointment.’

‘Oh, you know how it is.’ Hawke waved his hand vaguely; it wasn’t all accident when his fingers brushed the polished wood, still held erect between Sebastian’s legs. ‘Sometimes you’re just in the mood for a thing and absolutely nothing else will do.’

‘Yes,’ Sebastian agreed. ‘I know all about _that_.’

His eyes were bluer somehow, his nose more crooked. When Hawke’s fingers closed around the bow’s full curve it was already warmed by Sebastian’s touch.

Fenris cleared his throat. He was always coughing at Hawke when Hawke was being funny—or ridiculous; the two might have gone hand in hand, or bow in hand, depending on how they chose to look at it—but at least one spell was broken by the sound.

‘I should go,’ Hawke said.

‘…And sometimes you lot make my job too difficult,’ Varric added, just under his breath.

If it was a trick of the moonlight or an illusion from one of Xenon’s incense pots, a hallucination like the urchin or a lesson to be learned—that putting your hands in every urn was thrilling, yes, but never a viable life policy—then at least it was something.

‘Andraste preserve me,’ Hawke said outside, breathing in fresh Lowtown air—a contradiction in terms, just like his friends in the Hanged Man.

But Andraste was gone, and the cloud cover so heavy not even the stars winked down at Hawke in response, as though _someone_ might be watching—or listening when he spoke.

It was going to be a long night with little rest, possibly too much aching.

So at least one thing was no different from the usual.

*

Hawke had his fair share of sleeplessness: the Champion of Kirkwall with his pretty house full of knick-knacks and curios, slowly suffocating under the weight of so many _things,_ a sure sign of his deteriorating mental health—putting on eccentricity the way he’d put on a few pounds. He’d heard it all before, mostly the Varric voice that haunted his head, but sometimes in his own—slurred and slowed as it was.

He touched all the statues on his way in and checked all his chests to see that they were locked, that Sandal hadn’t made chandelier swings out of the moth-eaten scarves again. There were urns and pots aplenty but no screaming stone, which Hawke could have used to let off a little tension.

He could still let that off another way—one that he didn’t want to imagine Xenon had ever engaged in.

In fact, the thought very nearly ruined the magic of the moment, Hawke’s robes pushed up to his hips as he eased himself back onto the bed. He thought about the way Sebastian touched the Starkhaven bow—literally, unfortunately, with no sense of decent euphemism involved—and touched himself similarly, imagining the upper and lower limbs, wherever the nocking point might have made itself known with an unsteady pulse of tangled pleasure.

He thought he’d found it, something he’d known how to draw all along. The aim was off in the end, but he fell back against the bed afterward as if he’d hit the target dead center.

That was when he heard Sebastian come in.

Hawke had long since stopped locking the windows to his bedroom because simple locks did nothing to keep Isabela out when she had a mind to see him—or to leave a message carved into his writing desk, a bit of encouragement when it came to _not_ making a mabari’s ass of himself while trying to flirt with Sebastian. Sometimes, if she was at her kindest, Isabela finished things off with more general pointers, like how to keep his brow from getting all lined so he wouldn’t—eventually, far too soon, if he hadn’t started to already—wind up _looking_ like Xenon instead of simply acting and sounding like him.

Varric had a saying along those lines. Treachery came in rhythms of three. Three acts; three blind nugs—that sort of thing.

And rogues came in vis-à-vis locked _or_ unlocked windows.

They never chose to wear any pants for the occasion, either.

‘Are you here to audition for the role of my urchin?’ Hawke asked, propping himself up on one elbow, the faint traces of Xenon’s urn-smoke—or Orlesian chamber pot residue—still thick in the back of his throat.

‘If _that_ is what you call it in Ferelden,’ Sebastian admitted, the laces of his jerkin loose, making it so easy to draw it up over his belly from the hem, ‘then by all means. Charming customs you have in that country, and what’s more—you’re all built so _sturdy_ down there.’

Down there geographically, Hawke told himself. And also down there anatomically, as it were.

That was a pretty good line.

He hoped someone would remember it for him later.

‘Weren’t you afraid of catching the Starkhaven family jewels on a trellis on your way up?’ Hawke asked. ‘No chance of heirs _or_ spares _then_ , is there?’

Varric wasn’t around— _hopefully_ Varric wasn’t around—to hiss and wince at his poor choice of romantic dialogue. Sometimes, Hawke wanted to explain, it all felt so out of his control, like someone else was flipping through a wheel of outrageous lines, each less suitable than the one that came before.

But then, everyone probably felt that way at _some_ point or another

No matter where he was from, no matter how brave and how handsome he might have been, no matter how magnificently trimmed he kept his beard, fine living and expensive brandy and an empty home and dangerous friends had all led to one thing. 

The Champion was starting to crack like an old rose diamond.

Still, it could have been worse. If this was an abomination, it at least had the decency to be wickedly handsome.

Sebastian’s blue jerkin fell to the floor. His blue eyes twinkled in answer. Hawke stood, _staff_ still in hand, and crossed the room to meet him—an expanse of fine, tawny muscle and remarkably soft skin.

There were no horns involved, no purple tits, nipples but no piercings, so Hawke figured he’d done all he could, which meant it was finally time to do what he wanted.

‘If only we’d met earlier,’ Hawke sighed. ‘I was a wild child too, you know.’

‘The best part of that, Hawke,’ Sebastian said, ‘is that every man _can_ be a wicked boy again.’

It was sort of what the Chantry was always on about.

After years of being ambivalently uninspired, Hawke finally understood religion.

*

Deep in the Black Emporium, across the rickety bridge and beneath the shiftless stanchions, Xenon felt himself begin to smile. It was a slow process, but that meant he could savor the expression.

Was it so wrong to have a little fun from time to time, or to give others the meddlesome gift of a few magic moments?

‘Look, all I’m saying,’ Varric said, while Xenon chuckled and the urchin remained quieter than a screaming stone with no more screaming in it, ‘is that you’re starting to remind me of Hawke.’

It wasn’t the worst comparison Xenon had ever suffered. 

**END**


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